I have to smile at the depth of his astonishment. “No. There was no dropping. I was the middle kid, so I was mostly just ignored. But I did learn to be my own cheerleader, and you know what? The more you try to believe in yourself, the more you actually do. Your mental self-talk is very powerful. You have to keep it positive. So just go out there, say to yourself, ‘I got this,’ and believe it. You’ll be fine.”
Now he looks angry. “You’re giving me a pep talk?”
“You look like you could use one.”
He says flatly, “You’re not from this planet.”
“Thank you.”
Irritated by my smile, his old glare-that-could-melt-steel returns. Muttering something under his breath, he turns around, yanks open the door, and walks out, slamming the door shut behind him.
8
Declan
Not even ten minutes later, the texts start.
I’m sorry I annoy you so much.
When I ignore that one, she sends another.
Okay, “sorry” might be a stretch. Here’s the list of stuff I need.
She sends a list so long, I regret giving her the phone. The list includes specific items of clothing, makeup, toiletries, and food. Organic food, to be exact, exotic things I’ve never heard of with names like rambutan, cherimoya, and aguaje. Plus four different varieties of kale.
There’s a pause of no more than five minutes, then the texts start up again with only a few moments lapsing between each one.
Did you let Natalie know I’m okay yet? I’m worried about her.
Is Sean alive? I didn’t see him get out of the limo. I’m worried about him, too.
Why is there no television in your bedroom?
There are suit makers other than Armani, you know.
Remember: you got this.
I finally have to turn off the ringer because everyone keeps looking at me strangely. I’m standing in a room full of thirty Irish mobsters who came to pay their respects, and my phone is blowing up like some teenager’s in the midst of an emotional meltdown.
I text back, YOU’RE NOT TALKING TO ME, REMEMBER?
She sends back a middle finger emoji.
I can’t fucking believe this is my life.
9
Sloane
Thirty minutes after Declan leaves, Kieran comes in, carrying a tray with food. He sets it on the coffee table and turns to leave.
“Kieran?”
He stops in his tracks. He doesn’t turn back to me. He simply exhales in dread.
“I just wanted to ask how you’re feeling.”
There’s a pause, then he says in his thick Irish accent, “Come again?”
“Your nose. You okay?”
He turns just enough to scowl at me over his shoulder. “Stop acting the maggot.”
Yikes. What a lovely visual. “I don’t know how that translates to English, but I’m guessing it’s not complimentary.”
“Yer bang on.”
“Um. Okay?”
“Not the full shilling, are ye, lass?”
Apparently, we’re going to run through the entire gamut of obscure Irish slang before I can get a yes or a no. I need to move this along. “Arnica cream will help with the bruising. And remember, ice is your friend.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to decide between shoving my hand down a garbage disposal or running me over with the SUV.
When I send him a winning smile, he grumbles under his breath and walks out.
I test the door after he slams it shut behind him, but it’s locked. No luck.
The tray he left is filled with an array of food that would appeal to any fifteen-year-old boy. There’s a can of Coke, a bag of peanut M&Ms, a bigger bag of beef jerky, a party-size bag of Lay’s potato chips, and a jar of ranch dip.
Now I understand Declan’s mood swings. He’s in full-on sugar crash within an hour of every meal.
There’s also—the horror—a bologna sandwich on white bread with a slice of that kind of American cheese that comes individually wrapped in plastic and will easily remain edible through the next ice age because of all the preservatives embedded in its shiny, nuclear orange skin.
I pick the bologna off the sandwich and sniff it. There’s not much to smell as it’s covered in a thick layer of mayo. I wipe all the mayo on one of the napkins that came with the tray, then take a nibble of the meat.
It’s so salty, my ankles are probably already swelling. How does this qualify as food?
I spit it out. Then I send Declan another text.
If you’re trying to poison me, it’s working.
He hasn’t answered any of my other texts, so I’m not expecting anything this time, either. But within seconds, a response comes through.
Finally, some good news.
I answer back, smiling. Oh, look, you found your sense of humor. Was your missing charm with it?
His answer comes zinging back so fast, I’m not sure how he managed to type it.
Please don’t interrupt me while I’m ignoring you.
That makes me laugh out loud.
Good one, geezer. How old are you, anyway?
Around other people—forty-two. Around you—it feels like forty-two hundred.
He’s older than he looks. Smiling at the phone, I murmur, “Ouch. Savage.”
I debate sending something back, but decide to let him have the last word. Maybe it will improve his disposition the next time I see him.
Probably not, but I’ll give it a shot.
In the cabinet under the sinks in his enormous bathroom, I find aspirin, Neosporin, hydrogen peroxide, and bandages. I down two of the aspirin with a gulp of water from the sink, then take a shower. After locking the bathroom door first, of course.
When I’m finished with the shower, I towel dry my hair, put on Declan’s briefs and dress shirt again, and sit on the toilet to attend to the soles of my feet. I disinfect them with the peroxide, dab on the antibacterial cream, and stick a bandage on a few of the worst cuts.
Then, with nothing left to do and no television to watch, I decide to try to get more sleep.
I’ve already rummaged through all his drawers. He keeps nothing personal in his personal space, which I find very interesting. No photos, no books, no jewelry, no notes. Not a single item in his bedroom could identify him as the occupant. Only his clothes, hanging meticulously in his closet and folded with such anal precision in the drawers, could identify the space as belonging to a male. All else is neutral.
Empty.
He could vanish without a trace at any moment, and no one would ever know he’d been here.
Which, perhaps, is the point.
But it makes me curious. About him and his life, about what would drive a man to be so absent in his own home. Maybe he’s got a bunch of family photos in the living room, but somehow, I doubt it.
Somehow, I doubt he has a family.
Other than the mafia, that is. Besides his brothers-in-arms, Declan seems very much like a lone wolf.
I don’t have much to go on, but I’ve always been intuitive about people. And if my intuition is right, the man keeping me under his roof has more than the normal number of secrets a man in his position would have.
I suspect his proverbial closet doesn’t just have skeletons. It has entire graveyards.